


The Legend of Kira

by piggy09



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/M, fwp (fluff without plot)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kira watches "The Legend of Korra," Alison gives Cal the shovel talk, Felix finally gains the ability to sparkle (unless he had it all along), there is a pinky promise, and copious donuts are consumed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Legend of Kira

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Tumblr user [calmorrison](calmorrison.tumblr.com)'s birthday. Happy birthday, Adrianne!

It starts out simply enough – Kira’s a lively kid, but even she gets bored in a cabin in the middle of nowhere and she’s started begging Cal to use his laptop. For what, Cal doesn’t really know. What do eight-year-olds do on the Internet?

Cal thinks about it for a minute.

…What do eight-year-olds do on the Internet that _won’t_ make him want to throw his laptop into the river?

He doesn’t know, but Kira’s smart enough ( _too_ smart, really) to go to Sarah first and do the whole puppy-dog-eyes routine. Works on Sarah every time, and Cal is sure enough of himself to admit that Sarah’s equivalent of puppy-dog-eyes work on _him_ every time, so in the end he hands over his pride and joy to an eight-year-old with as many firewalls and parental blocks as a hacker dad can install.

“I still don’t know what she’s going to _do_ with it,” he mutters into the top of Sarah’s head. At some point he’s sure they were sitting on opposite sides of the couch but she’s melted on him like a candle and is now sprawled across him, catlike. The hair on the back of her head tickles his chin when she snorts, says, “She’s gonna find a virtual colorin’ book or something, Cal, it’s not like she’s going to join _Darknet_.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s not just Darknet with a capital D,” he says, but he can feel Sarah shaking with laughter and he shifts his leg, tipping her off the couch.

“ _Oi_ ,” she says from the floor, the picture of ruffled indignity, and Cal looks at her with perfect sincerity and says, “Whoops.”

 “You _arsehole_ ,” Sarah says with a laugh, picking herself up from the floor – with the perfect sort of grace Cal’s always loved about her – and sliding into his lap, easily.

She kisses him just as easily, and it’s as perfect as it ever was, as it ever is. Kissing Sarah is like sunlight on a perfect golden afternoon, like walking on a cold clear night where all the stars are out; kissing Sarah, to put it simply, is like coming home.

They kiss and he forgets about Kira and the Internet entirely. There’s only this: Sarah’s weight in his lap, and the slow passing of another easy day.

* * *

Weeks pass and eventually they do have to go back to the city – Sarah gets restless here, paces like a caged animal through the cabin, checks her phone as if she’s afraid some danger is lurking still in the city and waiting to sink its teeth into her, her sisters, Kira. Cal would be fine spending the rest of his life here, just the three of them, but it’s worth it for the way tension drains from Sarah’s shoulders when they head back and how excited Kira is, bouncing in the backseat and chattering about the plans she and Auntie Helena have made.

Or, that’s the usual schedule. Cal realizes he’s barely seen Kira around for the last couple weeks, only at dinner – where she stares at her spoon with a narrowed expression of concentration – and when it’s time for bed.

(He gets to kiss her goodnight on the forehead. He didn’t realize – he’d never known what a gift that was.

He’s stupid and sappy but he thinks he’s earned it.)

Cal has to wander around the cabin in big circles to find Kira, leaving Sarah to pack up the truck. Eventually he sees his daughter squatting in the dirt out back, staring at a rock with scrunched-up face that belies deep, deep focus.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, crouching down in the dirt. “Rock do something mean to you? Do I have to teach it a lesson?”

“I’m _Earthbending_ ,” she says, in a tone that says this should be obvious, _Dad_. (Okay, she doesn’t do the whole bratty emphasize-the-“dad” thing, but Cal’s reading parenting books and he knows it’s _coming_.)

“I don’t think that rock is going anywhere, Kira,” he says. “But we gotta get moving or it’ll be past your bedtime by the time we get to Uncle Felix’s.”

Kira sighs, but abandons the rock and goes scampering off ahead to get into the truck.

“Earth bending,” Cal mutters to himself, before shaking his head and following.

* * *

This becomes a trend. All the way back to the city Kira insists on having the windows rolled down (“Airbending!”) and when they stop at a rest stop Sarah has to pull Kira away from the bathroom sink (“Waterbending!”).

“I vote we keep her away from an open flame,” he mutters to Sarah as they follow Kira back to the truck – she’s doing some fast Tai chi movements as she goes, and it’s somewhere between hilarious and adorable.

Sarah looks at him with skeptical amusement, but it’s also the face of a mother who is not going to let her daughter try doing _anything_ with fire, especially not _bending_ it.

“Hey, monkey, where’d you learn all this stuff about bending?” Sarah asks lightly once they’re all buckled in, twisting around in her seat to raise eyebrows at Kira in the back. Cal just uses the rearview mirror; someone’s gotta stay focused on the road, right?

“From Korra,” says Kira, solemnly. “She’s the Avatar.”

“The _Avatar_ ,” Sarah says in the tone of fascination she only gets when she’s trying to support Kira’s enthusiasm.

“It’s a TV show,” Kira says, apparently seeing right through it. “I watched it on daddy’s laptop.”

Cal doesn’t say anything, but he’s sure he’s radiating a smugness related to the dangers of the Internet.

“I like Korra a lot,” Kira says, “she’s really brave. Like you, mommy.”

“I’m not that brave, Kira,” Sarah says, and Cal doesn’t have to look over to see the way her mouth is twisting down at the corners; he knows how her shoulders are bowing, _I fucked up I’m a mess I don’t deserve this_ and he wishes he had the words to tell her how wrong she was.

“She is,” Cal says blithely, not taking his eyes off the road, “she just can’t tell anyone, or they’ll all ask _her_ to be the Avatar.”

Kira giggles in the backseat and Sarah snorts, thumps him in the arm. But she twists back around and starts fiddling with the radio, finding a song Kira can sing along to, and so it’s all good, it’s all alright.

* * *

They park the truck outside Felix’s building, and Cal waves a friendly hello to the guy who runs the Turkish baths downstairs – why is that guy _always_ shirtless? – before they climb the stairs. Or in Kira’s case, _run_ up the stairs.

“God, she’s got so much energy,” Sarah sighs, “could use some of that.”

“You wanna be eight again?” Cal asks, amused, and Sarah barks a laugh and says, “No way, I was worlds of trouble at eight.” She leans in close to him – she’s a stair ahead, so they’re the same height – and whispers in his ear, “Pushed Felix down the stairs. Don’t tell anyone.”

He turns his head so he can peck her on the lips, briefly, and whispers, “Cross my heart.”

Sarah looks at him for a second, eyes both luminous and dark with a sort of magic Cal finds himself still unable to define, and smiles with something soft and fond before continuing her trek up the stairs.

By the time they make it up, bags and all, the door is already open and Kira, inside, has been engulfed in a mass of frizzy blonde hair and warm sweater. Cal hangs back in the doorway as Sarah dumps her bags, throws her arms around Cosima, Felix, Alison, holding her family like she’ll never let them go.

Cosima winks at him over Sarah’s shoulder, mouths _lookin’ good, lumberjack_. Cal doesn’t know what to say back so he just laughs, looks at the ground. He’s still not really used to having a family, even if he’s kind of been adopted in entirely through Sarah’s goodwill. There’s a feeling of cheer in this room that makes him itchy, a little, makes him crave wide-open spaces – but then Kira’s running over to him, Helena’s hand clasped firmly in hers, and saying, “Daddy, we need to use your laptop.”

“We just got here, Kira,” Cal says, kind of avoiding Helena’s eyes – it’s not that he’s frightened, okay, it’s just that he’s frightened. “Don’t you want to say hi to all your other aunties first?”

“We are going to watch T-V,” Helena says, carefully pronouncing each letter and looking at him with the sort of wariness of a tamed wolf. Her look says that she definitely knows how to break his fingers, and the only reason she’s _not_ is the small child hanging off one of her hands.

The sweater is very deceptive. So is the hair. She looks so _cuddly_.

Cal shoots a bewildered glance in Sarah’s direction, but she’s been abducted by Felix and a few full bottles of alcohol. No help is coming from that corner. Damn Sarah and the way she’s heartlessly thrown him to the wolves – the tiny, hopeful, eight-year-old wolves.

“Alright,” he sighs, “let me get my laptop,” and Helena shakes her head and says, “It is in the black bag, yes?”

Cal looks at his bags, thinks. It is.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, “but—”

“I know your password, daddy,” Kira says, as Helena detaches herself and floats over to Cal’s bags. “You go be with the grownups.”

Then they’re both gone, and Cal’s left feeling like he’s the target of a well-oiled heist. Kira probably gets that from Sarah, somehow. Christ. He didn’t realize a life of crime was _genetic_.

“Cal,” Sarah roars from the kitchen…area, “Cosima cares about _whatever_ you’re buildin’ in the shed, get over here and explain yourself.”

His daughter and his – uh – and Helena have vanished in the two seconds he hasn’t been paying attention to them, so Cal dutifully goes to get a beer and explain himself.

He ends up doing a lot more drinking than explaining, and it ends with everyone collapsed around Felix’s furniture as Cosima tells some slurred story about an ex-boyfriend she had, with the _worst_ pretentious hipster beard (her words).

“Not like yours,” she says, lazily waving a hand Cal-wards, “yours is…nice.”

“Everyone’s weak for the beard,” he mutters to Sarah, who’s leaning against his shoulder; her hand is wrapped around his, and she’s playing with his fingers idly. She snorts, takes a slug from the beer she’s holding in her other hand, and says, “Don’t get a big head, they’re all just as weak for Delphine’s hair.”

“It _is_ magical,” he murmurs. Pauses. “But you like my beard better, right?”

He is spared an answer to this by the sudden impact of a pillow to face and a hissed, “ _Oi_ , lovebirds, save your _canoodling_ for after-hours. Honestly.”

“Fee, I’m gonna bash your head in,” Sarah says lazily. She doesn’t move. Cosima keeps on telling the story like she wasn’t interrupted at all, and eventually Cal settles into sleep.

* * *

He wakes up a few hours later when he almost falls off the couch; apparently gravity’s been slowly pulling him down for the entire time he’s been asleep. Sarah stirs groggily from his shoulder and rolls the other way on the couch, so she’s nestled against Alison, who is slowly sliding into Cosima.

Out of the three of them, only Alison snores. Cal isn’t sure what to make of that.

He pads to the fridge, softly, to get something to wash the dryness out of his throat, but pauses when he sees bright lights flickering from behind the jungle of easels in the corner. His first sleep-addled thought is that the art’s doing it. Then he remembers that he hasn’t seen Kira or Helena all night, and he changes directions to walk over there instead.

He’s just made it to the easels – which have been converted into some sort of blanket fort, apparently – when a cascade of blonde curls pokes out, eyes him up and down, and says, “Hell _o_ , Cal Morrison.”

“You can just call me Cal, you know,” he says uncomfortably, and Helena just blinks at him, eyes shining in the dark.

…Wait, is she _crying?_

“Everything okay in there?” he asks, squatting so they’re at the same level. Helena tilts her head left, and then right, and then her mouth twists at the corner. She shrugs; the blanket ripples.

There’s more rippling and then Kira’s head pokes out, too. “Hi, daddy,” she says in a stage whisper. She looks at the pile of sisters on the couch, and Felix in his chair, and whispers, “you should be asleep.”

“So should you, actually,” he says, and Helena makes a distressed sound and says “Not yet.”

“We have to finish the season,” Kira says solemnly, and Helena bobs her head up and down and says “Yes.”

Cal thinks he should probably stop this – that’s what dads do, right? bedtime and tooth brushing and stuff? – but he’s also pretty sure if he put Kira to bed she would be right up and out the second he turns his back.

…He’s _terrible_ at this.

“Okay,” he says. “But just this season, alright? Your mom’s gonna be mad if she wakes up and you’re still awake.”

“She will get enough sleep,” Helena says.

Kira nods, sticks her hand out with her pinky extended, and with great ceremony she says “Pinky promise.”

Cal hooks pinkies. The feeling of ceremony probably comes from the fact that it’s 4am and he’s beginning to feel the pounding of a _terrible_ hangover.

“Alright,” he says, “but a pinky promise is a _solemn bond_ , Kira.”

“I know,” Kira says. Then she ducks her head back into the tent. Helena looks at him, narrows her eyes, and says, “Go to sleep, Cal Morrison. Will help with hangover.”

Then she grins in a flash of white teeth and retreats. Cal stares at the easels for a second, meeting the eyes of a painted Alison Hendrix; he shoots her a look of deep despair at this whole situation. He thinks she empathizes.

Okay, definitely time for bed. Or. Couch. He pulls himself to his feet, lumbers back over to the couch, and falls asleep.

* * *

He wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder and an increasingly amused voice repeating “Cal” like he’s going to—

Oh, _that’s_ a headache. Fuck.

“Sleeping Beardy rises,” comes a surprisingly chipper British voice, and Cal hears Alison hiss “Felix, that was _terrible_.”

“Give me time,” Felix says, “I’m still working on it,” and Cal cracks his eyes open to see the two of them staring at him.

“What _time_ is it,” he says, and Alison says “Eight thirty! Bright and early.”

“Calm down, darling, he’s obviously not with us,” Felix says, practically sparkling. That may possibly just be the glitter, but Felix is _suspiciously_ awake. That’s really unfair. Cal’s mouth tastes like socks.

He manages to shift himself to a sitting position, letting out a breath between his teeth at the firm and immediate protest of both his neck and skull, and eyes the two of them grouchily. Then he looks at the other end of the couch, where Sarah and Cosima are still drooling all over each other.

“Why me,” he croaks.

“You can cook,” Felix says, and Alison lets out a satisfied “mm” and nods while Felix continues. “If I know my sister the only thing that’s going to be budging her is _copious_ amounts of grease.”

“Guys, I can barely make eggs,” Cal says, and Felix shrugs and says “Good enough.”

Cal blinks at him, groggily, and feels like he should be protesting more to this. But he’s not nearly awake enough to come up with a logical argument, especially with Felix and Alison beaming at him like the twin personifications of a sunrise.

“How are you so awake,” he croaks.

“Hangovers are for heterosexuals,” Felix says blithely.

Alison hits him in the arm, a flat _whap_ of a sound that sends Felix hissing melodramatically, looking stylishly wounded and woundedly stylish. Is woundedly a word? Cal doesn’t think it’s a word, but if anyone can pull off a non-word Felix can.

“He wasn’t drinking,” Alison sniffs, apparently unaware of the strange loops of Cal’s thought process. “In solidarity.”

“Right,” says Cal, and then looks at Alison, blinks, says “Can’t _you_ cook.”

She lets out a shriek of a laugh and says, “Oh, goodness, no,” hand fluttering up to tuck itself under her chin with the apparent force of her ladylike mirth.

“Absolutely not,” Felix agrees. “You should see her casserole.”

“I make a _great_ casserole,” Alison hisses, ponytail whipping through the air as she turns to confront Felix, and Cal takes that as his cue to stumble his way off the couch and into the kitchen. He opens the fridge to find several Chinese food containers, some bottles of wine, and half a loaf of bread.

Cal looks at Felix. Felix looks at him. Cal looks at the fridge. Looks back at Felix. Raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Felix,” he says.

“When is breakfast,” says a heavily-accented voice from behind him, and _Jesus_ Christ that’s Helena. Behind him. Standing completely nonchalant, hands tucked in her pockets, like she’s been summoned by the word _miracle_.

“Whenever Cal makes it, _sestra_ ,” Felix says cheerily, looking at Cal and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“Will there be donuts,” Helena asks Cal in a low monotone.

“Only if you go get them,” Cal says, exasperated, running a hand through his hair and wincing at the grease trapped between his fingers. Helena tilts her head, sucks her lips between her teeth, and nods.

“Alright,” she says, as if this whole thing makes perfect sense. “I will get the donuts.”

She heads to Felix’s dresser, full of intent, and Felix follows with whispered squawks likely about the dignity of his clothing and the fact that there are no donuts to be found in his dresser, Helena, _stop_.

Cal looks at Sarah and Cosima, asleep on the couch; watches the way their brows are both peaceful, still. It’s rare to see Sarah like that. Love for her fills his chest slow and easy, and he forgets Alison’s presence until she clears her throat, pointedly.

“Hey,” he says, turning to look at her – all compressed energy, like a coiled spring. He can barely see Sarah in her at all, especially not with Sarah still dreaming on Felix’s couch.

“Hello,” she says, pauses, adds: “Cal.”

She clears her throat again. Cal gets the feeling he should be going into this conversation a lot more caffeinated.

“Hello, Alison,” he says sincerely, and she gives him a tight smile that – if spoken – would probably include the words _funny_ and _mister_.

“So!” she says. “You’re settling in well.”

Cal watches Helena and Felix get into a scrabbling tug-of-war over a sleek black coat and shrugs, says, “I’m trying.”

“Look,” Alison says sharply, apparently having given up on whatever pretense she entered the conversation here, “you seem very…charming, and I’m sure you understand how lucky you are that Sarah has chosen to – well.”

Part of Cal wants to let her keep going, to see what sort of euphemism she’s going to conjure up. Instead she just flaps a hand around – before it returns to its position tucked under her chin – and blows air through her lips.

“But I have become _very_ efficient recently at cleaning up bodies,” she says in a teakettle’s whistle, “and if you hurt Sarah in any way, Cal Morrison—”

Thankfully, Felix swoops in before Alison can finish that line of thought. “Alison, sweetheart, I did tell you not to give the shovel talk,” he sighs, reaching around her to grab a scarf that has somehow ended up wrapped around the microwave.

“What about shovels,” says Helena, who has apparently won the fight for the jacket and is now standing behind Felix, hands shoved into her pockets, rocking back and forth.

“That is not something you _ever_ need to know,” Felix says cheerily, and Alison spits over him, “I was _not_ saying anything involving…shovels!”

“You afraid, mister muscles,” Felix asks, raising his eyebrows and looking at Cal, and Cal says, “Yeah? A little?”

(A _lot?_ Nobody has said anything about bodies, but he’s pretty sure Alison is joking…she didn’t seem like she was joking. Oh, god, what are the odds that more than one person in this room is a murderer? What kind of family _is_ this?)

“Then it was a shovel talk, love,” Felix continues triumphantly, and then says “me ‘n Shakira here are goin’ to get donuts.”

“With sugar,” Helena says solemnly.

“ _Don’t_ let Sarah drink any more,” Felix says, and then he and Helena are out the door. The rattling of the metal slamming home sends Cosima stirring awake on the couch; Cal can see her the whites of her eyes as she opens them, blinks blearily, and then decides to go back to sleep.

It’s just him and Alison. Just him and the woman who _basically_ threatened murder and is now staring at the mess on the countertops and pursing her lips.

“Look,” Cal says, “nobody needs me to make food, right, so I’m just gonna—”

He gestures vaguely to the couch, and Alison lets out a pointed sniff that says she doesn’t _approve_ but it’s _his decision_ and she’s not going to _stop_ him. So he trudges to the couch, flops down, and before he can even adjust he’s back asleep.

* * *

He wakes up when sugar tickles his nose and he sneezes.

“I think he’s awake,” says a serious eight-year-old voice, and he can hear Sarah snorting and saying, “He sure is. Now _eat_ the donut, yeah?”

“Why ‘m I being assaulted with donuts,” Cal slurs, “I demand my rights,” and it’s the sound of Sarah’s laugh that makes him open his eyes, see Sarah and Kira sitting next to him on the couch. Kira’s sitting on Sarah’s lap; her nose is dusted with powdered sugar, and she takes a vicious bite of her donut.

“Hi, daddy,” she says. “You were snoring.”

He’s going to say something to that but Sarah holds out a coffee mug, wordlessly, and he decides that can wait. Thank god for caffeine. While he’s drinking Kira yawns, mouth filled with half-chewed donut, and Sarah shifts her daughter in her lap.

“You tired, monkey?” she says. “Didn’t sleep well?”

“Me ‘n Helena were awake all night,” Kira murmurs, eyes drooping, and adds the killing blow: “daddy said we could.”

Cal chokes a little bit on his coffee, and feels the weight of Sarah’s eyes on him, full mother lioness. “I didn’t,” he says defensively, taking another fortifying sip of coffee, “I stumbled into the blanket fort at 2 am and was coerced into a pinky promise.”

“We had to finish the season, mommy,” Kira says, letting her head thud into Sarah’s breastbone, “’cause once I’m gone Helena won’t be able to watch it anymore.”

“Season of what,” Sarah says, stroking Kira’s hair and giving Cal a look that says _This isn’t over_ and also _you should be stronger than pinky promises, shite_.

“ _Korra_ , mom,” Kira says, the _duh_ implied. Cal raises his eyebrows at Sarah in agreement. _Duh_.

“Helena likes it a lot, huh,” Cal says, thinking of the way Sarah’s sister’s eyes had glittered in that strange early light.

“Mhm,” says Kira. Her eyes open lazily, but her gaze is clear when she looks at Cal, says, “Korra fights the dark spirit and she wins, ‘cause she’s bright.”

She pauses, and looks down at her lap, wriggling a little bit. Then she murmurs, “Helena’s still fighting the dark, and nobody tells her she can beat it.”

“’Cept me,” she finishes, shrugging. “ _I_ know she can win. Auntie Helena’s all bright on the inside, ‘cause she’s strong like Korra.”

Seemingly satisfied, she resumes eating her donut. There’s a pause when Cal and Sarah look at each other, and Cal wonders if Sarah’s feeling the same sort of guilt Cal’s feeling, all misplaced assumptions and the way Helena had looked at him, some sort of desperate starving aggression. Shit. Of course his eight-year-old daughter has a better grasp of people than Cal does.

He just keeps drinking his coffee. Thinks. Behind them, he can hear the sound of Cosima telling an anecdote to Helena, something about a game of _Tomb Raider_ and a bottle of wine. At the other end of the apartment Felix and Alison are squabbling over Felix’s bed, something Cal can’t hear, and Cal can’t concentrate anyways – Sarah’s shuffled herself and Kira over so that she’s leaned against Cal’s side, Kira flopping down across both their laps.

“Oh, no, I have a kid in my lap,” Cal says with no bitterness. “There go my plans for the afternoon.”

“Shaddup,” Sarah says drowsily, “your bloody plans were to sit here all day and let me lean on you.”

“No, that’s not in my calendar,” Cal says, but Sarah’s tilted his head with the light brush of her fingers against his jaw; she kisses him with a mouth that tastes like sugar and, underneath that, the stink of morning breath. Her hand’s still cradling his jaw and it brushes along the hair of his beard, tender and gentle.

There’s a wolf-whistle from one part of the apartment, but Cal doesn’t care – he’s too focused in this, the weight of Kira’s breathing, the soft pressure of Sarah’s mouth against his.

“If your plan was for us to nap all day,” Cal says when the kiss breaks, “you shouldn’t have fed me that coffee. You’re your own downfall, Sarah Manning.”

“Mm,” Sarah says intelligently, not moving.

“Oi,” yells Felix from the general vicinity of the bed, “you sleepyheads gonna move off the couch before you start growing mold, or what?”

There’s a warm rush of laughter in a chorus of three voices, and when Cal closes his eyes he can’t tell who’s where – he can only feel the warmth of Sarah against his side, Kira’s drowsing body in their laps. He’s in no rush to answer Felix’s question. He’s in no rush to do anything, really; he lets his eyes flutter closed and lets the day roll through him, trusting that when he opens his eyes it’ll be to the sight of his family and nothing more.

There’s comfort in that, he thinks: having all the people around you be familiar.

It’s his last thought, before he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed!


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